She approached the painting that had called to her - a face emerging from a mist of pigment and shadow. It was neither fully formed nor entirely erased, an image overlaid with spectral script.
2025.02.13
在一座被遺忘的博物館深處，珍穿梭於破碎的時間長廊。她不僅是一名策展人，更是消逝之臉的檔案管理者——那些逐漸模糊的肖像，畫中人物在記憶與遺忘之間游離不定。
今晚，她被一縷低語召喚。一本古老的帳冊上，褪色的墨跡寫著她的名字，那筆跡陌生卻帶著一絲熟悉的溫度。她走向那幅呼喚她的畫像——一張在霧色顏料與陰影中浮現的臉孔。它既不完全清晰，也未完全消失，而是層疊著幽微的筆跡，如同等待被解讀的古老故事。珍的指尖輕輕滑過畫布。顏料已不再是顏料，而是一層層交織的記憶，彼此交錯、重疊。她瞥見一個擁有風暴色雙眼的女孩，一個臉龐與羊皮紙融合的男孩，一個神情消融於綠金霧影中的女子。
「你是誰？」她低聲呢喃。
畫像微微顫動。不是生命的氣息，而是介於存在與消逝之間的呼吸。它在等待她憶起。
珍花費數年時間，從殘缺的碎片中拼湊歷史，試圖尋回被時間掩埋的真實。然而這張臉——這個存在——不同於以往。它並非迷失，而是被層層摺疊，如同時間向內蜷縮，吞噬自身的過往。
畫布上的墨跡暗了下來，隨著她的觸碰流轉變化。那一瞬間，她明白了。
她不僅是檔案管理者，她本身就是檔案的一部分——一個被寫在逐漸褪色筆跡中的名字，等待著被記起，否則將被時間徹底遺忘。
於是，珍輕聲喚出了自己的名字，期盼著自己仍然存在。
In the hushed corners of a forgotten museum, Jane moved through aisles of fractured time. She was not just a curator; she was an archivist of vanishing faces—portraits that had begun to dissolve, their subjects slipping between memory and oblivion.
Tonight, she had been summoned by a whisper. The faded ink on an old ledger bore her name, scrawled in a hand unfamiliar yet intimate. She approached the painting that had called to her—a face emerging from a mist of pigment and shadow. It was neither fully formed nor entirely erased, an image overlaid with spectral script.
Jane traced her fingers along the surface. The paint was no longer paint but a woven tapestry of forgotten stories, layered upon each other. She saw glimpses of a girl with storm-colored eyes, a boy whose face blurred into parchment, a woman whose expression dissolved into a whisper of green and gold.
“Who are you?” she murmured.
The portrait breathed. Not in the way of the living, but in the way of something caught between existence and disappearance. It was waiting for her to remember.
Jane had spent years reconstructing histories from mere fragments, piecing together the edges of time. But this face—this presence—was different. It was not lost; it was layered, folded into itself, like time bending inward.
The ink on the canvas darkened, shifting beneath her touch. And in that moment, she understood.
She was not just the archivist. She was part of the archive itself—a name written in the fading script of memory, waiting to be recalled before time swallowed her whole.
And so, Jane whispered her own name, hoping to remain.
